It was the first day of July and my family was gathered on the couches in the living room, my brother on the floor inching closer and closer to the television every second. It was family tradition, watching rugby together and eating the warm popcorn that my mother had made. The Lions were playing the All Blacks and I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. I myself am not a rugby player but rugby was very important to the men in my family, it’s in my blood. When they weren’t watching it, they were playing it. The Lions were following closely behind the All Blacks, trailing behind them but no one every thought they’d bite. The score was 21-14, “Come on!” I whispered to myself. Suddenly I caught a glimpse of player #9, his jet black hair flying in the wind as he was running. He had been so quiet for most of the test match. Then, the unthinkable happened. Suddenly player #9, Conor Murray, darted between two All Blacks players saving the game. Scoring a try against the All Blacks was a huge deal, they were known to demolish their opponents. Conor Murray had become the hero of the game, saving The Lions from defeat and instead (as I would later find out) handing them victory. This moment is important to me because I like to imagine myself to be like Conor. People don’t usually expect me to thrive, to steal the game, that position is reserved from my brother. I’d like to hope that one day maybe I could score a try against anything that anyone would ever imagine from me, to prove to everyone that underestimates me that they are wrong. That memory of Conor reminds me that I too can be strong and fierce.